


Ghosts of the Past, So Strictly Judge

by Zashaka



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Family, Gen, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 21:31:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9787796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zashaka/pseuds/Zashaka
Summary: Ford hadn't thought much about Stan's brand since he was brought back through the portal, and when it first happened he shoved the guilt aside in favor of blaming Stan for pushing him into the Nightmare realm; the closest thing to Hell the living could ever see. But as someone who had to deal with his fair share of injures both before and during his travels through the multiverse, he should have realized that an untreated wound of that degree could have severe consequences. He should have realized that Stan probably didn't have any money for a doctors visit.But he never guessed that his brother had died.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first Gravity Falls fanfiction, yay! Anyway I was reading a story (can't recall the name) where Ford was considering all the near-death encounters Stan has had, and one of them was the brand incident. So that got me thinking, what if he actually had died and was a ghost the whole time? How would Ford react to that?
> 
> I'm not sure if the characters seem OOC, but I thought Mabel would be the most calm in this kind of situation because of the whole 'Mabel's Guide to Death' thing. And Ford's thought process is based on the idea of him being overcome with guilt, rather than thinking things through logically, so keep that in mind when reading it!
> 
> This is meant to be a oneshot, though I may add on to the ending because I'm not entirely happy with it. But right now I don't intend to add any more chapters. The idea I had was basically that everything proceeds as per canon once they reach the Shack; they just have one more thing to process after Weirdmageddon is all.

 

* * *

           When the Fearamid was destroyed, Stanford and the children were lucky enough to land within sight of each other. Stanley, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen.

            There was no sign of him in town either, and the residents didn’t know where he was. Stanford wished he had time to appreciate the irony of people telling _him_ how lucky he was to have such a wonderful brother, but that would have to wait until Stanley had been found. And until Ford had finished grieving over _destroying_ his brother’s mind.

 _Would the townsfolk hate him,_ he wondered _, for killing their hero?_

            The children decided to head towards the Shack in hopes that some miracle had allowed Stan to land safe and sound in his own home.

_And when did Ford start thinking of it as the Shack? When had it become Stan’s home and not his own?_

            Ford trudged after the children hesitantly. He hadn’t been able to work up the nerve to tell them the truth about Stan’s sacrifice, and watching them search so frantically for their beloved grunkle only made it harder. He remembered Stan’s fierce insistence that Ford stay away from the children and his clear jealousy when Ford deliberately broke his promise and the children practically worshiped him like a hero. Oh, if only Stan knew the truth. Ford may have the children’s admiration, but it was Stan who had their love.

            The long search through the town had only given Ford’s thoughts time to spiral deeper and deeper into despair, and now that they were going to the Shack – the final place they could think to look – he couldn’t help but imagine all the worst case scenarios possible.

            Stan, lying dead on the ground, his old body unable to handle the strain of a complete memory wipe. Stan, wasting away in the Nightmare realm, pulled through the rift because Bill’s remains were in his mind. Stan, with glowing yellow eyes, his mind erased and his body a puppet for Bill to use as he pleased.

            Stan. Gone forever because of Ford.

            Ford looked at the children and thought of their inevitable sorrow when they learned the truth. He thought of the townsfolk and the praises they sang of his brother. He thought of Fiddleford and his self-induced insanity. He thought of cold eyes staring at him as a flame was held to his Journal. He thought of screams and a body struggling beneath his boot as flesh was burned in place of paper.

            He thought of a child, cast on the streets to die because he was hurt and upset when people called him worthless one time too many.

            As Ford followed the children with nothing to drown out his thoughts, he realized just how many lives his pride had destroyed. How many hearts his cold distance had broken.

            An excited shout had him glancing up in hope. The sheer relief that the children had actually _found_ Stan was enough to smother the anxiety about what might come to pass.

            The children suddenly stopped and Ford followed their gaze in search of what had them so unsettled. He froze and his blood ran cold.

            _What is **that** doing here? It should have been sucked through the rift! Does this mean **he’s** still here? Is he still inside Stan?_

            Ford ran the rest of the way to the figure kneeling in the center of the small clearing. He started fumbling in his pocket for a flashlight. He had no idea what he’d do if Bill _was_ here, but at he could at least check for his presence first.

            But as soon as he reached the figure he paused. Instead of the yellow, slit-pupiled gaze he feared he was met with warm brown eyes peeking through equally brown hair that was cut in a mullet.

            “Stanley?”

            A cocky grin and a flirtatious wink was his response. “That’s me, stranger! Whatcha need?”

 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 

            Ford hesitantly glanced at the children before turning back to what looked like a younger version of his brother wearing Ford’s clothes.

            “Why do you look … like that?” he asked.

            Stan (or the thing that looked like him) just kept grinning. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, man. But I _can_ tell you that I’m a ghost, so I should look however I looked when I died.”

            “A ghost?” Ford repeated uncertainly. He had been running through possible explanations in his mind. It couldn’t be the shapeshifter; Dipper said it had been frozen in the cryo-tubes. Unless another had hatched? But how would it know what Stan looked like thirty years ago? And more importantly, why would it be imitating him in that form? Could it be Bill? That would be easier to explain if he was using Ford’s memories, but again, why? At least Bill couldn’t get into the Shack, so they’d be able to find out then if it was him.

            A ghost on the other hand … It would explain everything perfectly. But that would mean Stan had _died_. That he had died long before Ford had gotten a chance to apologize. Before he even realized he _should_ apologize.

            But if it really was Stan, how would he know? It wasn’t like Ford could ask him to say something only Stan would know. Not after using the memory gun.

            Ford sighed. Well, he might as well start with the obvious question. “If you’re a ghost, then how did you die?”

            The man’s smile faltered. “From an infected burn,” he said. “It’s funny though, I don’t really remember _how_ I got burned, but it kinda looks like a brand.” He chuckled dryly and gave Ford a weak grin. “Heh, maybe I just got on someone’s bad side.”

            Ford froze. A brand … No one knew about Stan’s brand except for him and Ford. They hadn’t even told the children when they were explaining who Ford was and why Stan took his place. Nothing could be better proof that this was really Stan.

            But … Ford _didn’t_ want it to be Stan. Ford had just been reunited with him, had _just_ realized how much he loved him. He didn’t want to lose him again. He didn’t want Stan to be dead.

            He didn’t want to find out that he had _killed_ his own brother.

            Ford took a deep, shaky breath. He slowly knelt next to the man and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Can I see it?” he asked softly.

            The man looked at him hesitantly for a second before removing his coat and turning around. He lifted the edge of his sweater over his shoulders and Ford sucked in a sharp breath.

            There it was. As clear as if it had just been placed. There before Ford was the proof that this was his brother.

            There right before him, was _proof_ that he was a murderer.

 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

 

            Ford stretched out a shaking hand and traced the top of the brand. Stan gasped and jumped slightly at the unexpected contact, but he didn’t pull away. Ford choked back a sob. Stan’s skin was cold. Ford was touching what looked like and inflamed burn and it was _cold_. Was Stan always this cold as a ghost? How had Ford not noticed? He finally gave in and started crying, resting his head on Stan’s uninjured shoulder.

            “Hey man, you okay back there?” Stan asked. Ford just sobbed even harder at the sound of his voice, but Stan kept talking anyway. What else was he supposed to do? The guy was a total stranger so it’s not like Stan was about to start rocking him and singing lullabies. Perhaps Stan could always shove him off and leave him on his own, but the guy was clearly distressed and Stan didn’t want to be a jerk.

            “Hey look, I know it ain’t too pretty but you don’t hafta keep staring, ya know? Sorry I don’t have enough energy right now to heal it, but just cover it up, man.”

            Stan glanced around, trying to think of something to say that would make the stranger feel better, and noticed two kids fidgeting nervously at the edge of the clearing.

            “Hey fella, those yer grandkids over there?” he asked. “They look pretty upset. Think maybe you should go over to ‘em or somethin’?”

            Ford glanced over shoulder and realized that the children did indeed look upset. He mentally berated himself for once again being a selfish idiot. How could he have let himself get so caught up in self-pity that he forgot that the children were suffering as well? It didn’t matter if he was a murderer; he was already a terrible person either way. But the children had already lost their favorite grunkle, they didn’t need to their second grunkle to abandon them.

            “Children,” he called out. “Come here please.”

            The children stepped forward nervously, and Ford knew the exact moment when they noticed the wound on Stanley’s shoulder. Their faces paled and their eyes widened.

            “Great-Uncle Ford,” Dipper began uncertainly. “Is that a … a _brand_?”

            Ford opened and closed his mouth a couple times before he could get words to form. _The children deserve to know the truth,_ he reminded himself. _You can have your breakdown later._

            “Dipper, Mabel,” Ford choked out. He took a deep breath. “This is Stanley. And yes Dipper, that is a brand.”

            Mabel gasped. “But if that’s Grunkle Stan, why does he look so young?” she asked.

            Heaving a sigh, Ford started to explain. “How much do you two know about ghosts?” he asked.

            The children blinked at the apparent change in topic. “Um … There are ten different types and they always have a reason for their haunting?” Dipper asked uncertainly.

            Ford chuckled. How naïve he had been before his trip through the multiverse! Perhaps he should write an updated version of his journals if Dipper trusted them so much.

            “That’s not quite true, Dipper,” Ford said. “I’ve learned a lot during my travels. A lot about things I thought I already knew, one of which was ghosts.”

            Stan had been uncharacteristically quiet and still since the children had come over. He hadn’t even tried to move Ford so he could pull his sweater down. Maybe he was an empathic ghost and he sensed everyone’s unease. Ford would have to ask him once everything was more settled.

            “There are many different types of ghosts,” Ford continued. “And not all of them remain in the physical plane due to unfinished business, but there _are_ a few things that all ghosts have in common. They always know that they’re ghosts, how they died, and what their name is. Apparently this is to make things easier for the Grim Reapers and other officials of the afterlife, so they don’t have to deal with people refusing to believe they’re dead and causing trouble with the living. But another thing that’s quite common in ghosts is the ability to alter their appearance, though this usually requires a lot of energy.”

            Ford looked at the children’s confused expressions and his face crumpled. “Right before I fell through the portal I … branded Stanley.” Ford said shakily. “The wound became infected and he died. He’s been a ghost ever since. The strain from the memory gun must have caused him to revert to his original appearance, but he wouldn’t remember anything anyway. His mind was completely erased. I essentially destroyed him.”

            Ford’s voice trailed off into sobs and he clutched Stanley closer. “Oh god,” he wailed. “I killed my own brother. I killed my brother _twice_.”

            That was it. Stan had had enough of this nonsense. He wrenched himself free from the stranger (his brother?) and pulled the sweater back down. He turned around, grabbed his brother’s shoulders and shook.

            “Hey, pull yourself together man,” Stan growled. “What’s past is past. Ain’t no good dwelling on it.”

            Ford stared up at Stan dazedly. “But I _killed_ you,” he whispered. “You should hate me.”

            “I’m sure you didn’t mean to,” was Stan’s retort. “And even if ya did it don’t matter. It’s in the past. What matters is the present, and these kids here _need_ you. Get over yourself.”

            Ford laughed bitterly. Of course. Stan gets _killed_ and he assumes it was an accident and offers forgiveness even if it wasn’t. Ford has a minor setback and he assumes it _wasn’t_ an accident, and responds with hate even if it was. He lets his brother get thrown on the streets to die and kills him when he survives. How could everyone have been so blinded when they were younger? Ford’s the one who never made anything good of himself.

            But Stan was right. Ford couldn’t wallow in self-pity when he had two children to take care of. He looked at them and was shocked to see that Dipper was the one crying. He had always though Mabel was the more emotional twin.

            “Dipper, are you alright, my boy?”

            “I wouldn’t let it go,” Dipper whispered. “I thought it was a tattoo and kept trying to see it even though Grunkle Stan said no. But it’s a _brand_ and it _killed him_ and I just _wouldn’t let it go!_ ” He was shouting at the end and he had been clenching his fists sporadically the entire time. “He probably didn’t even fake his death like he said, but just disposed of his own body,” he finished brokenly.

            Anything Ford meant to say in comfort flew right out of his mind when he heard that. H hadn’t even _thought_ about what happened to Stan’s body.

            Mabel hesitantly grabbed Dipper’s hand and squeezed. “Dipper … Maybe we should get back to the Shack before we all have break downs,” she suggested gently.

            “NO!” Dipper screamed. “What does it matter where we are? Stan is _dead_! He’s dead, Mabel! And going to his home isn’t going to change that.”

            Mabel stepped back with wide eyes. She didn’t know what to do. Dipper had _never_ been this upset before and Stan was dead and Ford had killed him and _she didn’t know what to do._

            “Hey kid,” Stan said suddenly. “Come on your sister’s right. If none of ya knew I was dead then it can’t be all that different from being alive, right? It’s nothin’ worth cryin’ about. So what’ya say we go home and see if something sparks my memory, hmm?”

            Dipper slowly stopped crying. No one had told Stan that Mabel was Dipper’s sister. And sure, they _did_ look very similar, but they could just as easily have been cousins. And maybe Stan was just guessing, but _maybe_ he had remembered. And what he said was true. It’s not like anything had changed just because they knew the truth. So maybe if Stan got his memory back everything would be normal. _Maybe_ everything could be okay.

            “Alright,” Dipper smiled shakily. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
